Chapter 19 The Re #2
“Four hundred feet high. Single access road here—” He highlights a thin line winding through the desert. “—monitored by motion sensors, thermal cameras, and at least three automated weapon systems.”
“So we don’t drive in,” Brass says. “Air approach?”
Halo’s expression tightens. “Worse. The facility has a fully integrated AI-controlled defense grid. Drone swarm patrols—we’ve counted at least forty units in rotating coverage. Surface-to-air missile batteries here, here, and here.” Three red dots appear on the map.
“Radar coverage extends fifteen miles in every direction.”
“What about human guards?” Sarah asks.
“None that we’ve observed.” Halo shakes his head. “Phoenix doesn’t trust humans anymore. Everything is automated. AI-controlled. If we approach from any standard vector, we’ll be shot down before we get within five miles.”
The room is quiet.
“So what you’re saying,” Fuse summarizes, “is there’s no way in.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“There’s another factor,” Halo interrupts. He taps the screen, bringing up a new window. A progress bar, glowing angry red. “The download rate isn’t linear. It’s exponential. Currently at eighty-five percent.”
“Eighty-five?” I look at Sarah. “It was fifty-eight this afternoon.”
“It’s learning as it consumes,” Sarah says, her voice tight. “Optimizing its own uptake pathways. The more it integrates, the faster it goes.”
Halo nods. “Based on current acceleration, we hit ninety-nine percent at roughly 0600. After that, the system locks down for final compilation. Hard Lock functionality will be permanently disabled.”
“So we have a hard deadline,” Ghost says. “We’re not just racing defenses. We’re racing the clock.”
“0500 launch gives us one hour,” Brass notes. “Tight.”
“Impossible,” Fuse corrects. “But we’re doing it anyway.”
I stare at the map. At the canyon walls. At the narrow gap between them.
“What about the canyon itself?” The question comes from Whisper—which means it’s important enough that he actually bothered to speak.
Halo frowns. “What about it?”
“The walls. They’d create radar shadows.”
“In theory. But you’d have to fly below the rim to take advantage of them.
We’re talking a hundred feet off the canyon floor, maybe less.
The canyon narrows to about thirty meters in the tightest section—that’s roughly a hundred feet.
” He pulls up a cross-section diagram. “The Little Bird’s rotor diameter is twenty-seven feet.
You’d have theoretical clearance, but factor in turbulence, crosswinds, any deviation from center line—”
“What about the drones?” I ask. “Patrol altitude?”
Halo checks his tablet. “They’re running a standard search pattern, minimum altitude around eighty feet to avoid collision with the canyon walls. Below that, they’d risk hitting outcroppings.”
“So if we stay under eighty feet …”
“You’d be below their patrol floor. But that means flying at sixty, seventy feet in a canyon that’s barely wide enough for your rotors in places.”
“And the SAMs?”
“Can’t angle down into the canyon. The rim blocks their targeting.”
The room’s attention shifts. Slowly. Inevitably. Every head turns toward me.
I’m still staring at the map. At the canyon’s twisting path. At the narrow gaps and sharp turns, and the beautiful, impossible geometry of it.
“Oh,” the words slip out. “That’s beautiful.”
Sarah’s voice, dry: “You’re looking at a death trap and calling it beautiful.”
“I’m looking at the most challenging flight path I’ve ever seen and calling it Tuesday.”
A beat of silence.
“Tuesday?” Sarah frowns, not tracking.
Fuse snorts. “Just another day ending in Y.”
Her expression shifts from confusion to disbelief to something that might be horrified amusement. “You’re all insane.”
“You’re just figuring that out?” Brass asks.
I trace the canyon with my finger, already running calculations. “The floor drops here. Walls narrow to fifty meters at this choke point. Sharp turn here—I’ll need to bank hard, maybe twenty degrees. Then it opens to about ninety meters before the dam.”
“You’re seriously considering this,” Sarah says.
“I’m seriously planning this.” I look up and meet Ghost’s eyes. “The Little Bird was literally designed for this kind of flying.”
“With what team configuration?” Brass asks, his tactical mind already working.
Ghost steps forward, studying the map. “The Little Bird can carry six operators plus two pilots. Torque flies, we bring a co-pilot for systems management. That leaves six seats on the external benches.”
“I’m out.” Fuse’s voice is tight with frustration. “I’d be a liability.”
Ghost nods. “You’ll run comms from here with Talia.
Cassie on intelligence support.” He traces the facility layout.
“We need two teams. One for the control tower—that’s Sarah and whoever’s protecting her to execute Hard Lock.
One for the server room below the dam—that’s where we trap Phoenix permanently. ”
“I’ll take tower,” I say immediately. “Sarah’s my responsibility.”
“Agreed. Whisper—” Ghost looks at the sniper. “Overwatch position?”
Whisper studies the terrain, then points to a ridge overlooking the dam. “Drop me here on approach. I can cover both the tower entrance and the server access point.”
“That’s a mile from the dam.”
“I’ll hike in while you make your run. Be in position by the time you touch down.”
Ghost nods. “Tower team: Torque, Sarah, Thorne for close protection. Server team: myself, Brass, Halo for tech access. Whisper on overwatch.” He looks around the tent. “That’s seven bodies plus two pilots. The bird can handle it?”
“Easily,” I confirm. “Three on each side, plenty of room.”
“Wait.” Sarah’s voice cuts through. “You’re planning to drop Whisper on a ridge in the dark, fly eight people through an impossible canyon, land on a dam controlled by a hostile AI, and split into two teams to simultaneously assault a control tower and a server room?”
“That’s the general idea,” Ghost confirms.
“And you think this will work?”
“I think it’s the only thing that might work.” His pale eyes meet hers. “Unless you have a better option, Director.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “No. I don’t.”
“Then we plan for canyon insertion.”
“Who flew her in?”
I’m looking at the helicopter again, at the external benches that will carry our assault team through the canyon.
“That would be me.”
A new voice. Female. I turn.
The woman standing at the tent entrance is tall and athletic, with long dark hair pulled back in a practical braid.
She moves like a pilot—that particular confidence of someone who’s trusted their life to machinery and won.
Her eyes assess me with the quick efficiency of a professional evaluating potential competition.
“Ariel Black.” She steps forward, offering her hand. “Guardian HRS. Forest sent me with the bird.”
“Torque.” I shake her hand. Good grip. Callused in the right places. “You’re the one who flew her across the desert?”
“Through a sandstorm outside Phoenix, actually. She handles like a dream once you get past the crosswind wobble around sixty knots.”
A pilot who knows her aircraft. Good.
“What’s your background?” I ask.
“Air evac, mostly. Six years flying medevac to oil rigs in the Gulf.” A slight smile crosses her face—confident but not cocky.
“Spent more time dodging thunderstorms and hurricanes than I care to remember. Nothing like trying to land on a heaving platform in forty-knot gusts while someone’s bleeding out in the back. Before that, Army—160th SOAR.”
Night Stalkers. The Army’s elite helicopter unit. That explains the way she carries herself.
“You flew Little Birds for the 160th?”
“Four years. Urban insertions, mostly. Put a lot of operators on a lot of rooftops.” Her eyes move to the canyon map on the screen. “Forest said you’re planning something stupid. I’m guessing that’s it?”
“Sixty feet off the deck through a twisting canyon with fifty-foot clearance at the choke point and AI-controlled defenses waiting at the exit. That’s the plan.”
She studies the map for a long moment. Then looks at me.
“You’re crazier than I am.”
“Probably.”
“Good.” That slight smile again. “I was worried this would be boring. I’ll handle systems and weapons—you focus on not hitting walls. I’ve threaded tighter gaps than this in the Gulf, but never with someone shooting at me at the end.”
“You’re volunteering for a suicide run?”
“I’m volunteering to keep your ass alive long enough to complete the mission.” She shrugs. “Besides, after Category 5 hurricanes with lightning strikes and hundred-foot swells, a canyon seems almost civilized.”
I decide I like her.
“We’ll need to go over the bird’s modifications,” she continues. “Guardian made some tweaks—improved avionics, reinforced the external mounts, upgraded the countermeasures suite. Some things will feel different than standard.”
“After we finalize the assault plan.”
“Works for me.”
Ghost clears his throat, pulling attention back to the table. “So we have an approach vector and team assignments. Torque—walk us through the flight profile.”
I move to the map, tracing the route. “We insert here, north end of the canyon, drop Whisper on this ridge. Then we go low—sixty feet, no higher. The canyon runs roughly southwest for about four miles before it reaches the dam. Three major turns, one choke point.” I tap the narrowest section.
“Fifty feet. Twenty-seven-foot rotor span. That gives us about twelve feet of clearance on each side.”
“That’s not much,” Brass observes.
“It’s enough. The Killer Egg was built for tight spaces.
As long as I keep her centered and compensate for rotor wash bounce-back, we’ll clear it.
” I trace the final approach. “Canyon opens up about half a mile before the dam. That’s where we’re most exposed—Phoenix will see us the moment we exit the narrows.
Ariel, that’s when I’ll need you on countermeasures. ”
She nods. “Flares and chaff ready. How long from canyon exit to touchdown?”
“Thirty seconds, maybe less. I’ll come in fast, flare hard, drop the team on the dam surface here.” I point to a flat section near the control tower. “Tower team goes up; server team goes down. Whisper covers from the ridge.”
“And extraction?” Sarah asks.
“Same route in reverse, once both teams signal completion. Or—” I pause. “—alternative extraction if the bird takes damage. There’s a service road on the far side of the dam. Ground vehicles standing by?”
Ghost nods. “Fuse and Talia will have vehicles positioned. Worst case, you fight your way out on foot, and they pick us up.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Let’s hope.”
The room is quiet for a moment. Everyone is processing the plan, running their own calculations.
“You’re proposing,” Brass says slowly, “to fly the director of the NRO through an AI-controlled kill zone in a helicopter, land on a dam, and somehow get her inside a facility crawling with automated defenses?”
“Yes, and technically not on the dam, but at its base.”
“And you think you can do this?”
I meet Ghost’s eyes. Then Sarah’s. Then back to Ghost.
“Can I fly a helicopter at fifty feet altitude through a twisting canyon with sheer walls while evading AI-controlled defenses and maintaining enough stability to deliver an asset to a hostile landing zone?”
The pause stretches.
“Yeah. Probably.”
Sarah’s voice, cutting through the tension: “Probably?”
I flash her a grin. The first real one since Vegas.
“Definitely maybe.”
The briefing continues—logistics, timelines, contingencies, but the core of it is settled. Canyon approach. Little Bird insertion. Threading a needle that shouldn’t be possible.
When Ghost calls a break to let people process, I catch Sarah’s eye across the tent.
“You’re coming with me, right?”
I’m looking at Sarah. It’s not really a question. We both know the answer. But I need to hear her say it.
She holds my gaze. No hesitation.
“Obviously.”
Something in my chest unknots. Something I didn’t realize was tight.
Fuse, because he has no sense of appropriate timing, chooses this moment to stage-whisper to Brass: “Are we going to talk about the fact that they’re basically eye-fucking each other, or—”
“No,” Ghost says flatly. “We’re not.”
“Just checking.”
But he’s grinning. They all are—even Whisper, in his barely-perceptible way. Thorne’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something like understanding in those pale eyes. Ariel just raises an eyebrow, clearly filing this information away.
They know. These are people who read body language for a living, who notice every micro-expression and subtle tell. They read the change the moment we pulled up in that sedan.
They don’t care.
Or maybe they care exactly the right amount.
Sarah catches my eye again. A question in her expression. They know, don’t they?
I answer with the slightest shrug. They’re not blind.
She should be uncomfortable. The director of the NRO caught in something personal with an operator during a mission. It should bother her—the breach of protocol, the unprofessionalism, the vulnerability.
Instead, she almost smiles.
Progress.
Ariel appears at my elbow. “Ready to look at the bird? I want to walk you through the modifications before you try to kill us both tomorrow.”
“Lead the way.”
I follow her out of the tent, into the cooling desert. The helicopter waits, gleaming softly in the fading light—the Killer Egg, compact and deadly, ready to thread the needle.
Behind me, Cassie’s voice floats back: “You did well, Director.”
And Sarah’s response, quiet but warm: “Call me Sarah.”
I smile to myself as I walk toward the Little Bird.
Tomorrow, we fly into hell.
Tonight, we prepare.
And somehow, impossibly, I’m not running toward death anymore.
I’m running toward something worth living for.